


hakuna mamaitai (no memories for the rest of your night)

by ErinNovelist



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Keith, College Student Shiro (Voltron), Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Lots of alcohol, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Romance, Slow Burn, background Allura/Lance, bad past relationships, blind dates, life hack: don't go on dates and flirt with the bartender, past Shiro/Sendak - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 11:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinNovelist/pseuds/ErinNovelist
Summary: Shiro's desperate and goes on blind dates in an attempt to find love. The bartender ends up complicating things.Underneath the neonMarmorasign over the bar area, the bartender works diligently on drinks, pale skin glowing in the soft blue light. "Got anything strong enough to get me through the rest of the night?" Shiro asks him.The man quirks an eyebrow, casting him a sharp smile, andfuck, there goes Shiro's heart. "Please, my drinks are legendary.""Give me your best."A Mai Tai is slid his way. "Hakuna mamaitai," he whispers in a low voice, sending shivers down Shiro's spine. "It means no memories for the rest of your night."(Shiro's a goner.)





	hakuna mamaitai (no memories for the rest of your night)

**Author's Note:**

> This started because I binged cheesy Netflix movies, and I needed Keith to be the bartender that gives Shiro advice about his bad life choices. It ended up being so much more. This is intended to be a fun rom-com type of story with tropes galore, so I hope you enjoy it. Special thanks to my ML Fanfiction buddies and Training Deck Discord peeps.

Basically, the story goes like this: Shiro’s a fuck up and doesn’t know how to be in love.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t try though, because, _god damn it_ , he tries.

He tries so fucking hard that sometimes it’s the only thing he knows how to do. By now, it’s a habit, an instinct, a product of muscle memory. The thing about habits, though, is that eventually it’s just someone going through the motions, which isn’t a way to live. Motion is not action. Living your life isn’t something you can just play pretend at. If so, what’s the point? 

It’s a long game though, and he’s playing it anyway. 

(At least… he’s _trying_ ).

 

*****

“I don’t know who I am anymore.” Shiro’s confession is whispered between sips of English gin and lime, the words as bitter as the taste that burns his throat. “It’s like my life’s going nowhere.”

Hunk, Pidge, and Allura look on in sympathy while Lance downs his own drink in a single gulp, unwilling to join Shiro’s pity party. Shiro can’t exactly blame him. It’s a Friday night after midterms in their final semester at the Garrison, and they’ve followed the rest of the college students to the local club downtown—full of flashing lights, neon body paint, greasy food, and lots of alcohol—in efforts to forget about the hardships of the last week. Instead of enjoying the heavy bass and warm bodies at the city’s club scene, Shiro’s wallowing away his sorrows in the plethora of mixed drinks that somehow keep finding their way to their table. He’s not sure who’s keeping up with his tab at this point, but the alcohol’s wormed its way too deep into his system for him to care.

His friends have truly been great though, listening to him bitch the evening away. Shiro’s not exactly sure where his issues stem from as the week has just been awful in general—something to do with the exams he certainly failed, the internship that’s going nowhere, the ex-boyfriend who won’t lose his number. It could honestly be several things, but Shiro’s too tired to try to psychoanalyze it all. That’s Allura’s job.

 “It can’t be that bad, can it?” Hunk’s the one who interrupts first, taking a few French fries from the group’s shared basket. He munches on them, chewing over Shiro’s words. “I mean, it sounds like you’re just stressed from tests and your internship. Slav’s been working you pretty hard.” 

Shiro scoffs into his drink, shaking his head. “It’s not that.” Working till midnight at an unpaid internship is the least of his worries. This, at least, he’s certain of.

“Then what else is bothering you?” Hunk gestures to the five of them with a bright smile. “Eager ears are ready to listen.”

“I… don’t know.” His voice is easy, words evasive. There’s not much more to tell when he doesn’t even know the problem himself. “It just feels like I’m missing something.” 

“Well you’re certainly not going to find what you’re looking for here.” Allura cast a disdainful look around the club—at the streaks of neon body paint that smear the table top, the writhing bodies on the dance floor, the sticky puddles of beer on the ground. Honestly, Shiro didn’t plan on finding something here as the club has always been their escape—not their destination. 

With a sigh, Shiro clasps his hands together, staring at the reflection of glimmering lights in the metal of his prosthesis. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for. It’s just the feeling of knowing I need something, but I don’t know where to start.” He raises his drink to his lips, ready to drown his sorrows once more, when a hand reaches across the table and snatches it from him. 

“It’s not gonna be in there either,” Pidge interjects, tossing the rest of it back like she’s downing a shot. “Also, that shit sucks. If you’re drinking anymore, splurge on the good stuff, for the love of God.” 

“Are you even _legal_?” Shiro retorts. 

“I’m legal enough." 

Hunk starts laughing, but it’s not the mocking, piteous sound that Shiro has been expecting. It’s softer, full of sympathy. “Honestly, Shiro, it sounds like you just need more sleep. This week’s been bad, I get it, man. We’ve all had those.”

Shiro can only shake his head and cock out a small, wry smile. “It’s not like that. I keep thinking that I’m making a mistake: with my life, my major, …everything, and I’m… I’m ready to just _quit_.” He chuckles softly, more to himself than anything. “How pathetic does that sound?”

Lance, who’s been surprisingly quiet this whole time, finally chooses that moment to interrupt. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-two years, it’s that the mistakes I’ve made and the people I’ve laid have just made me who I am today,” he says around the rim of his spiced rum and orange juice. “Sounds like you just need more sex.”

Shiro froze. “ _W-What_?” he sputters in shock, choking on air. 

Pidge quirks an eyebrow, eyeing him curiously. “When _is_ the last time you got laid, Shiro?”

“T-That’s _none_ of your business,” he snaps. Heat rushes to his cheeks, already dusted a light pink, and something tells him it’s not _just_ from the alcohol. “I don’t even know what this has to do with the conversation.”

Allura flips her ponytail over her shoulder as she lifts a finger in his direction. “No, this conversation is important, and it’s something we’re going to come back to in a minute.” Instead, she turns around in the booth and narrows her eyes in Lance’s direction. “Now just _who_ have you been ‘ _laying’_ lately?” The words sound strange on her tongue, and Shiro thanks whichever deity that’s listening that’s he’s not on the other end of her fury right now.

Lance spits his drink back into the glass, barely stammering out a complete sentence. “N-No one, just… People that I… I mean, not _lately_ , I just meant…” He casts a frantic glance towards Hunk who’s eyes grow wide in panic. 

“Oh, nope, nope, nope.” He shakes his head furiously. “You’re on your own for this, buddy.”

“ _Hunk_!” Lance protests, growing pale.

Allura’s eyes flash wildly. “I’m _waiting_ , Lance.” From the way her gaze lingers—fury burning hard, hurt swimming beneath—Shiro suspects that she might know a thing or two about what he’s going through. The unspoken connection between her and Lance has always been a mystery between the group—no one knows what it is, and neither do the two involved. They just know it’s there, and for now, that seems to be enough.

“Hey, lay off him,” Pidge interjects. “Shiro’s the one having a quarter-life crisis right now. We should be asking about his sex life, not Lance’s.”

“That’s a good point,” Hunk concedes, though he looks quite dismal at the change of conversation, and Shiro can’t blame him. Allura’s fury truly is a sight to behold, and watching Lance flounder against it has always been one of his favorite pastimes.

 “No, I think this subject is very important, and Allura deserves an answer—” Shiro tries to say, but Pidge tosses a fry at his face instead, hitting him square in the center of his forehead.

“Nice try, Shirogane, but you’ve got no chance.” She crosses her arms against her chest, peering at him over the top of her glasses. “When you’re alluding to dropping out a month before you get your degree, then that means we’re having this conversation whether you like it or not.”

Shiro itches for a refill, but he’s got no such luck. Instead, he fiddles with his empty glass, tossing it between his hands, and tries to avoid the glances that his friends are exchanging between themselves. Even though the alcohol lubed him up enough to spill his secrets, it isn’t enough to quell the panic and anxiety bubbling up inside him. Now his friends are to act as his judge, jury, and executioner, and Shiro can only sit here at their mercy.

He hopes his death is quick and painless. 

“Honestly, though, Lance does have a point,” Allura says. “Sex might help you unwind a little.” 

“Orgasms are said to help increase productivity and focus because it drops your cortisol levels,” Pidge chimes in, stealing a sip from Hunk’s drink. “You’re all about ‘ _patience yield focus’_ when you should actually be saying ‘ _f_ _ucking yields focus_ ' or something equivalent."

Shiro drops his head in his hands and lets out a low groan.

Lance snickers beside him. “I always wondered what you sounded like in bed.” 

Hunk, despite having a penchant for patience, finally snaps out a harsh, “ _Lance, behave_ ,” which sends the aforementioned into even more titters.

Allura, sensing that Shiro is gearing up to bolt after that last comment, slips out of her seat and comes around the table to slide in next to him. Nudging his arm with her arm, she casts him a warm smile when he finally gathers the strength to meet her gaze. “We just want you to be happy,” she tells him. “You deserve that.” 

“I just don’t think sex is gonna help anything,” he offers weakly.

Lance finally stops laughing and stares at him, eyes glinting mischievously, and Shiro’s heart drops into his stomach. “You never answered Pidge’s question though: when’s the last time you slept with someone?”

If Shiro simply _wanted_ a drink before, now it’s a burning desire that’s nearly overwhelming. There’s no way he’s getting through this conversation sober. 

The fact of the matter is that Shiro knows _exactly_ when the last time he had sex—really, _really_ had sex—with someone was. It was October of last year during the last few weeks with Sendak—when sex was the only thing holding the frayed strings of their relationship together, when the only thing he actually liked about his boyfriend was the warm body in his bed at the end of the day, when the fights and biting remarks were papercuts before they turned to deep scars.

The entire ordeal shook Shiro to the core. It’s been nearly six months since then, and he can still trace the burns Sendak left on him. Relationships, Shiro always assumed, are where souls are meant to burn together. However, Sendak and he were never that way. With them, fire plus fire ended up creating a bigger explosion with him choking on ashes as the world went up in smoke around them. It ended the exact way it began—burning and hurting.

Luckily, Sendak found a way to end it before Shiro could douse the flames. Walking in on your boyfriend banging the boy from the apartment next door really puts things into perspective. The ending had a sense of finality to it. A nail in the coffin, three bell tolls before the funeral. Shiro was happy it was over, but it still felt like death when it was.

Since then, it’s been an ache that burns hot and lingers. Sendak tries to call him every so often, usually for a quickie on the top floor of the library, or to invite him to the frat party down the block. Shiro tells him to lose his number, but Sendak’s never been one to listen for long. After two years together, his ex-boyfriend knows his quirks and habits, routine and schedule—there’s always a way for Sendak to get under his skin.

Shiro’s learned to ignore him though. Towards the last few weeks of their relationship, he had a lot of practice. Still, it’s not something he particularly likes to think about, and it’s something his friends have unanimously agreed to never bring up again.

Until now. 

“Holy shit,” Lance says, breaking the silence between the five of them. “Was it with Sendak?”

Shiro shifts in his seat, evading his friends’ intense stares. “No.” 

“Holy shit, it _was_.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” he protests, ducking his head down, cheeks burning. 

Allura puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly. “We don’t have to, Shiro. Don’t worry.” He starts to relax under her touch, but then she zooms in for the attack. “But this dry spell’s lasted about six months then, right?”

Shiro fixes her with a flat look. “What do you think?”

“So it’s been six months since Shiro last had sex,” Lance says, lifting his glass to mime a toast. “Kudos to your lack of libido, dude.” 

“Just because I haven’t slept with someone doesn’t mean I haven’t _done_ stuff.” But at this point, Shiro’s past arguing. There’s really nothing he can do or say to redeem himself. “I could easily find someone if I wanted to.”

Pidge gives him amused look, gesturing towards the crowd on the dance floor across from them. “They’re yours for the picking, dude. Show us your stuff.”

Once more, Shiro can only sigh. “I don’t… want to.”

“That’s my point.”

“Look,” he says and takes a deep breath, trying to find the right words to appease his friends and save himself. “I don’t just want a one night stand—if that’s what I needed and _wanted,_ I would call Sendak back.”

“Uh, no?” Hunk flashes him an incredulous stare, mouth dropping open in surprise. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. In fact, it’s probably the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Allura only nods in agreement. “You’re smart, Shiro, don’t be stupid.”

“So if it’s not sex that you need,” Lance says, confusion lacing his tone, “Then what is it? Money? Fame? A vacation?” The other man leans back in his seat, crossing his arms against his chest and fixing Shiro with a quizzical stare. “There’s gotta be _something_ you want.”

He knows Lance has a point. The hole inside him has been gaping for months now, growing larger and larger until he can no longer ignore its presence. It’s like a black hole that consumes everything it can but will never be satisfied with what the universe gives. Nothing he’s thrown in has made a difference, and now he’s left with more questions and no answers. 

“No, it’s none of that.”

“Have you tried letting loose?” Lance suggests. “It doesn’t have to be sex, dude. I’m talking about going to the gym or that martial arts club you used to like. Just something to relax?”

“That’s not going to help me.”

“Have you even tried?” Allura broaches carefully, cocking her head with a condoling expression. It’s written across her face—etched in the corners of her lips, the soft pity in her eyes. “I don’t want you to do something rash without thinking about it first, or seeing what your options are.” 

“I’m not gonna do something stupid,” he tries to say, but she’s already shaking her head.

“You said you wanted to drop out,” Allura presses.

“That’s not what I meant,” Shiro snaps back. 

“Well, that’s what it sounded like,” Pidge chimes in. 

“Look, I’m not going to drop out of school,” Shiro says, desperately trying to clear the air. “I’m just not happy with what I’m doing right now, and I don’t know how to fix that. Maybe I just need to take a semester off or something.”

Hunk sighs, and the sound is heavy. Shiro feels the weight settle on his shoulders, nearly crushed by the burden, because disappointment from Hunk has always carried an edge to it. It’s not something he wants to hear from his friend. “You’re so close to getting your degree though. It’s all you’ve talked about for the last year, and now you’re gonna throw it away? You’re almost there, man. You really wanna risk everything now?”

Shiro clenches his hands into tight fists atop the table, his eyes burning holes into the warped mahogany surface. There’s an exhale beside him as Allura presses another glass against his knuckles, and without pause, he tosses the shot back and relinquishes in the burn of alcohol down his throat.

He feels like a rubber band, stretched tight as the stresses that have been building the last few months increase the tension. Maximum elongation is the measure of how much a specimen can stretch before it breaks, and with each reprimand his friends give or suggestion they press, he can feel himself pulling further apart.

If Shiro was whole, perhaps the rubber band could take the extra strain, but the truth is that Shiro’s been broken for some time now, and he isn’t sure how much he can take. Maybe it’s best if he lets go early, let the worn rubber try to return to normal, before it has a chance to _snap_. He knows what will happen if it does.

His friends will be caught in the crossfire, he might withdraw from his program, he might _actually_ call Sendak back. 

Shiro doesn’t want that though. It’s not worth it.

“Do you know what it’s like: to feel like you’re only going through the motions?” Shiro’s talking to his hands, head low. Gray eyes stare back from his reflection in the dark brown liquor of his glass. “I’m not happy, I’m not sad. I just feel…. alone.” _Nothing at all_ , he corrects.

“You’ve got us though,” Pidge says, her voice small. “You know that right, Shiro?” 

“I do,” he tells her. “I really do. You guys are my legs to stand on, you know? You keep me going, and I am so grateful for all of you, but…” He cast a helpless look around the table, meeting all their solemn, silent gazes. “I don’t… have anyone who’s...” Searching desperately for an explanation, Shiro fumbles for some words that might make sense. “I don’t have a right hand.”

Pidge’s lips curve upward into a slight smile. “You’re right. You don’t.” She points to his prosthetic. 

Shiro huffs out a quiet breath and rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” Pidge says, the warmth in her voice matching the fire in her eyes. It’s not the raging forest fire that Shiro’s grown used to but rather a crackling bonfire, safe and comfortable and _home_. “But I think you’ll find someone soon. I believe in you.” 

Lance, who’s been rather quiet, leans forward on his elbows, an eager smile slipping onto his face. “Which brings us back to the topic of sex.”

Already shaking his head, Shiro reaches across the table for a few French fries, chewing on them absently as he tries to zone out. He doesn’t want to hear what Lance has to say because it isn’t something he _hasn’t_ already tried.

The first thing he’d done when this strange feeling first hit was come to this very same club on a Saturday night, when the adrenaline was high and exhaustion lingered—a common cold that alcohol and crowds could cure. It’s easy to lose himself in something that’s physical: the warm press of bodies against his, the heavy hands of a stranger on his hips, the bass drumming in time with his own heartbeat. Finding a boy with glittering eyes and a pretty smile is easy, and giving into the fire that burns deep is the only reprieve he can get when the world turns slippery, but it can only last for so long.

When his world falls out of orbit, Shiro needs to find his gravity again. It’s not something casual sex or a one night stand can fix.

“I’m not looking for a hook up—” Shiro starts to say, but the smile on Lance’s face stops him. It’s understanding, lips pursed into a thin line, corners curled to soften it. For all the tactless comments and inappropriate jokes, Lance knows his limits and when to stop. It’s one of the things that Shiro respects the hell out of him for.

“I’m not saying you need to pick someone up right now.” Lance cast a glance behind them at the thrumming crowd on the dance floor. “But I do think getting back in the game might be a good idea.”

This perks Allura’s interest. “What do you have in mind?” 

“A blind date.”

Shiro laughs, the sound of it grating. It’s like a sputtering engine, rough and catching. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“Why not?” Allura asks as a curious excitement settles over the table. “You won’t do a hook up, and you’re certainly not going back to Sendak. A date would be perfect for you.”

“Not a blind date,” Shiro protests, leaning back into the plush leather of the booth and crossing his arms against his chest. “I’d rather do Tindr again.” Besides, Shiro reasons with himself, a blind date was _exactly_ how he met Sendak, and he certainly wasn’t ready to go through that again.

“Look,” Lance says fervently. “I know this guy who’d be good for you: laidback, easy on the eyes, great in bed.”

“Absolutely not,” Shiro swears. 

“How do you know he’s good in bed?” Allura asks. 

Their simultaneous replies are ignored as Lance presses on. “I’m not saying you have to go steady with him, Shiro, I just think he’d be a great kick starter for you. Help you get back in the swing of things, maybe help you decide what you’re looking for.”

Shiro pauses because that statement makes sense, almost logical—something that Lance rarely shows—and it surprises him by the simplicity of it all. Dating, not for a relationship or casual sex, but rather to get back into the game. It’s not a concept he’s thought about before, maybe because he’s always been too lost in the schematics, or because his experiences with relationships have turned him off from even the easiest part of these things. First dates create connections and those which don’t never go anywhere. It’s the first rule they teach you, and it’s one Shiro’s nearly forgotten. 

He doesn’t need to find his happy ending on the first date. He just needs to be open to it. 

Maybe that’s what a blind date can do.

“Fine.” 

There’s silence around the table as the rest of his friends pause, Lance’s mouth hanging open and Hunk’s eyes wide and startled. Pidge and Allura are only staring at him, as if they were trying to read between the lines and understand the story he wrote between the word.

“Wait, you mean you’re actually agreeing to this?” Lance asks, the force of Shiro’s words hitting him belatedly. His eyes are wide and startled but brimming with the excitement of a child, raw and real. “Like I can give some guy your number, and you’ll be perfectly fine with it?” 

Shiro shifts uneasily in his seat. “I thought you knew a good guy.”

“No, I do, I do.” Lance chuckles lightly, shaking his head. “I just had this whole argument planned to get you to agree, and I didn’t even make it to the first point.”

Shiro shrugs because he’s got nothing else to add. His friends can gape and gawk all they want, but at the end of the day, he knows that he needs to take every chance he can. He doesn’t want to drop out of school, doesn’t want to call Sendak back, doesn’t want to disappoint his friends. Instinct is ingrained deep though, and sometimes it’s easy to lose yourself to what gives you a reprieve. The lure of the distant and difficult is a concept Shiro still struggles with.

“Don’t worry,” Shiro says as he lifts his glass. “I’ll regret this tomorrow when I’m sober.” 

“You still agreed,” Lance replies, grinning, as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “And I’m already setting you up. Better wear something pretty, Shiro.”

Beside him, Allura is laughing and Pidge’s smile could cut glass, even Hunk is getting excited. As Lance texts the guy he has in mind and they make plans for Saturday night, Shiro can only sit in silence and stew over the night’s events. 

He hopes he hasn’t made a horrible mistake. 

 

*

 

It’s not that Shiro doesn’t trust Lance because he _does_.

He’s known him for nearly five years, and since then, they’ve bonded over Red Bull and vodka shots after a spontaneous five hour bike ride to Palo Alto, survived an explosion in the physics lab because _apparently friction is always a factor_ , and were arrested together once because of an incident involving public nudity (which, when it comes to the rest of their rag-tag group of friends, _never_ happened).

Honestly, there’s only so much you can put up with before you become friends with someone. Life is about meaningful moments, of connections, of inexplicable bonds that prove people are meant to be together. Granted, Shiro’s never been in love with Lance—mostly because Lance’s always a little bit too self-involved, unless it comes to Allura—but that doesn’t mean Lance doesn’t matter.

Because Lance _does_. Because he _trusts_ Lance. Because Lance is his _friend_. 

But sometimes, there’s moments he questions it, and standing here, staring up at the man Lance set him up with: Shiro wonders if Fate just decided to be cruel the day he met Lance McClain.

Shiro doesn’t know much about Rolo other than the basics: he’s 24, a senior at the Garrison, works as a trainer at the campus gym, and wants a guy who knows his way around a weight room. It’s everything he could find on a Tindr profile, which… honestly might explain some things considering Lance created his Tindr and occasionally uses it.

Either way, it sounds like this evening is going to be a complete disaster.

 Lance has suggested a bar in the heart of the city, less of a club scene and more of a quaint hole-in-the-wall sort of comfy. It’s full of brick throughout and polished wood, chrome detailing, and soft light with a tight spiral staircase leading to a balcony level that borders the whole room. College students treat it as the local haunt, clamoring in at any hour of the day whether to study or socialize. Shiro wonders why he never knew about this place, but Lance claims it’s probably one of Altea’s best kept secrets—the only people who know about it are those who need it.

  _Marmora_ , the neon sign above the bar reads. 

Rolo greets him at the entrance, and they find a small table sequestered away in the corner of the establishment. When the waiter swings by, Rolo orders a pitcher of something brown and heavy, while Shiro gets some water because he doesn't want to ruin the first date he's had in a long time with alcohol. The memories from last Friday night haunt the forefront of his mind like ghosts in the shadows, scarcely believed but ever present. Shiro knows all too well that alcohol can be the anesthesia to the pains of life as it cuts into you piece by piece. It’s what turns a mess into chaos. It’s not something he needs right now.

(Unless it goes bad. Then it's free reign on the bar.)

The conversation between them flows well for the first hour until it becomes clear that Rolo has nothing to talk about other than his fraternity, his intermural football team, and his ex-girlfriend named Nyma. From what Shiro can understand, things hadn’t ended well between them, and Nyma is the only thing on his mind in the month that followed their break-up. Shiro can’t blame him for holding onto his love because Shiro held onto Sendak for months before it actually ended. Still, the alcohol lubes Rolo up enough that he spills everything he can about her, and now Shiro knows the color of her eyes and the way she laughs, the birthmark on her left hip in intimate detail, and the way she has a habit of slashing the tires of student cars in the gym parking lot. 

Shiro makes a pact to never park in front of the Health and Recreation facility anymore.

(He’s also going to murder Lance. That’s number one on his list.) 

“I just don’t know what to do,” Rolo blubbers over his smoked salmon, already two pitchers down, and Shiro doesn’t even want to _know_ what his blood alcohol percentage is right now. “She’s just the best thing to ever happen to me? Like… how’d she get away from me, man?" 

“I don’t know,” Shiro responds wryly. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing for the last two hours.” If he ever meets Nyma, he’d like to ask her for some tips.

“I just feel _so alone_ without her.” Rolo reaches for the pitcher on the table, which has long since been exchanged for Diet Coke, though he’s already too far gone to notice the difference. “You know what I mean? It’s like my whole reason for living is gone.”

“I think I get it,” Shiro says but wishes he didn’t. He can’t help but sympathize with Rolo: if this evening has done anything, it’s _completely_ destroyed his reason for living, dating, and trying. “You wish you made other choices and that things had turned out differently.” 

(His fingers itch for a drink. A Mai Tai actually sounds good right now.)

It’s been two hours, and all Rolo can do is wax poetry about how Nyma is the one who got away, and Shiro is the damn fool forced to listen to him. He doesn’t know why he can’t just stand up and walk out of the bar, though a part of him knows it’s because he made a promise to his friends to at least _try_.

He wonders what classifies as trying. Is it sitting here with another’s company as you listen to them fall in love with their ex-girlfriend over liquor? Is it trying to press for a goodnight kiss when you already know there’s no hope of reciprocation? Is it sentencing yourself to misery just to avoid the execution?

Eventually, he manages to tune Rolo out so that his voice becomes a quiet drone in the background and turns his attention to other things at the bar. There’s a piano in the corner where some musician is playing a spirited, whimsical rendition of a pop favorite that Shiro can’t name, and most patrons are bobbing along with the music. Waiters maneuver past tables with trays full of food and drinks, smiles and pleasantries falling from their lips as easily as a waterfall from a cliff’s edge. Some couples are squeezed into booths along the far wall, too engrossed in conversation to notice the rest of the world around them—they’re the ones Shiro envies the most, so in love that they forget everything else.

Staring back at Rolo, gray eyes flickering over his drunk and dreary form, he wonders if Rolo is in love with his Nyma. From the way he talks about her, even after he lost her, Shiro’s sure of it. Because Shiro remembers being in love once upon a time.

He misses it.

As Rolo launches into the story of how he met Nyma, Shiro finally decides to order a drink. He’s going to need it to finish out this night in one piece. Pushing himself out of his chair with a short apology, he heads towards the bar, wondering just what concoction will be strong enough to knock him out when he gets home and let him forget this night ever happened.

That’s when he finally sees _him_.

Underneath the neon _Marmora_ sign over the bar area, the bartender works diligently on drinks, flashing smiles to waiting customers as they make pleasant conversation. His flawless pale skin glows in the soft blue light of the sign as he moves about behind the bar, a form fitting black collared shirt and black pants that does wonders for his firm ass. Messy black hair is swept up in a low ponytail, eyes so dark they seem almost purple in the dim lights, and full pink lips that smile easy.

The man is mirage Shiro has stumbled upon in the middle of a desert, and the sight of him was like the water he craves for his burning throat because _oh boy_ is he Thirsty™.

God, he’s…gorgeous— _beautiful_.

“Um, h-hi,” Shiro says dumbly, trying to form words that are suddenly lost to him. A blush dusts the tops of his cheeks a light pink, and he prays no one will notice.

The man turns his sights to Shiro and gives him a bright smile. Shiro was right—those lips smile easy. (And his smile is _really, really_ pretty.) “Hi, what can I get you?”

A bubble swells in his throat, and Shiro struggles to pry the words out. “Uh… m-mai…”  _Oh my, my, my._

The man is patient with him, nodding knowingly. “A… Mai Tai?”

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes. “Sorry, it’s been a long night.” And he’s not lying. 

“I noticed,” the bartender says, causing Shiro to quirk an eyebrow in confusion. “Looks like your date is going great, by the way.”

“ _Oh_.” Shiro’s blush returns full force.

“Kudos to your patience,” the bartender continues, pouring Jamaican rum into the container. His eyes twinkle with unbridled mirth, amusement tinging his features. “I don’t think I could’ve lasted half an hour with that guy.” 

“How much have you noticed?” Shiro asks, perplexed. 

The man shrugs noncommittally. “Your waiter’s been bringing back updates for the last two hours. Honestly, it’s been the best thing to happen to us this evening. We’re all placing bets for how long you stick it out.” 

Shiro can only stare at his, the brash man who—had it been anyone else—might’ve insulted him right out of the establishment. But from the warmth in his voice, and the way his sharp eyes fix on his own in efforts to assuage, Shiro knows the bartender only means well. Regardless, he casts a wary glance around the bar and notes the rest of the employees he’s seen breezing by his table throughout the night. He makes a mental note to tip high.

The bartender shifts uneasily as he pours crushed ice into a glass, pulling Shiro from his musings. “Who’s winning?” Shiro asks him, voice cracking. “The bet.”

“Regris thought you’d pull out at one hour. Thace thinks you’ve got fifteen minutes left in you.” 

“And you?”

The bartender flashes him a sharp smirk, and Shiro’s heart lurches into his throat at the sight. “I think you’re pretty strong. Think you can last a half hour more?”

Shiro levels him with a faux stern look. “You want me to suffer for your entertainment? Is that what you’re telling me?” 

“Even if it means your drink’s on the house?” The man smiles again and shakes his head. “It depends how much you’re willing to sacrifice for the price of freedom.”

His comment causes Shiro to burst into laughter—wild and loud—and it takes him by surprise. Shoulders shaking, eyes alit with excitement, for the first time during this _disaster_ of an evening, Shiro’s _enjoying_ himself all because of a bartender and a bet.

Taking the Mai Tai from the bartender, Shiro flashes him a wry grin. “You’ve got yourself a deal, but this Mai Tai better be worth it.”

Lips pressed into a thin, challenging line, the bartender levels him with a heavy stare. “My drinks are a legend. _Hakuna ma’maitai_.” 

“What’s that?” 

The man leans closer, eyes flashing wildly. “It means no memories for the rest of your night.”

Struck silent from the response, Shiro can only nod and turn on his heel, heading back to his table while trying to string coherent thoughts together. He takes a sip of his Mai Tai, the sour taste sparking new life within him, and with a bout of strength, he readies himself for the rest of the evening.

Rolo rambles on for thirty more minutes—and Shiro counts them all, even the seconds. From the corner of his eye, he can see his waiter conversing with the bartender and other staff members, all keeping a quiet eye on the two of them. When Rolo’s words are more slur than sense, Shiro finally deigns it appropriate to bring the evening to a close and calls for the bill.

“You okay to get out of here on your own?” Shiro asks as he pushes himself up from his seat, already reaching for his jacket slung across the back of the chair.

 Rolo lets his glassy eyes rest on Shiro’s concerned ones. “God,” he murmurs—more to himself than anything. “I really wanna kiss you right now.”

Shiro freezes, one arm in the sleeve of his jacket. “Excuse me?” he asks because he isn’t sure if he caught the right sentence. It doesn’t make sense if he did. 

“You have _very_ kissable lips,” Rolo continues. He slumps forward in his seat, hands curling into loose fists on the table top. “They look like Nyma’s.” 

Shiro purses said lips into a thin line. “Okay, that’s it,” he says and reaches into Rolo’s pocket. 

The other man does little to stop him—doesn’t even try. Once Shiro’s withdrawn his phone, he scrolls through the contact list because apparently Rolo doesn’t believe in password locking and sure enough finds Nyma’s number. He presses call and once the phone starts ringing, he hands the device over to Rolo.

 “Good luck, buddy,” he says and tosses a few bills on the table, knowing it would more than enough cover the balance plus tip.

 He feels like he’s walking on air, and the feeling carries him from the table and past the bar, where he watches a few waiters slip the bartender some money with begrudging expressions. Before Shiro can reach the door, the bartender raises his head and flashes him a warm smile, mouthing a quick “ _Thanks_!” in his direction. Shiro ducks his head in acknowledgement and pushes open the door, stepping out into the cool evening air and begins the long walk home.

 For the first date he’s been on in six months, Shiro reckons it could’ve been worse. He _definitely_ knows he’ll be murdering Lance for this, but on the bright side, at least it wasn’t a total loss. His heart thuds heavy in his chest at the memory of the bartender’s smile and bright eyes and how they make the knots of tension in his shoulders unravel.

 Overall, it was a nice night.

Shiro knows it could be better though.

   

*

 

 It’s the Tuesday after and Shiro lays on the black leather couch in his apartment, tossing a purple stress ball up towards the ceiling and catching it neatly as it comes back down. The _up_ and _down_ is tedious and monotonous, allowing his mind to hide from thoughts he’d rather not have.

 It’s been twenty minutes since he got home from class and ran into Rolo on the way, saw the blonde in his arms, the way he pressed his lips to hers like he hadn’t asked to kiss Shiro a few days before. Honestly, Shiro doesn’t care about Rolo or Nyma, but it still sucks that his first date was a disaster, and he wishes that Rolo was still reeling from the impact of the crash just as he was.

 There’s a knock on the door, and the handle rattles vigorously. “Hey, Shiro, you decent in there?” It’s Lance because of course his friend wouldn’t leave him alone. “I wanna hear how your date went! You cancelled our Sunday brunch, so I expect good things!”

Shiro looks over at his door and prays to whichever deity is listening to shut Lance the hell up. By now, the rest of the tenants in the building know all about Shiro’s Saturday escapades even though there was a certain lack of.

Scowling, he gets up and swings open the door, fixing Lance with a sharp glare. “Don’t you have class tonight?”

“Cancelled,” Lance quips, stepping inside before Shiro offers an invitation. “Rolo here? I don’t want to find a naked man hiding in a closet or behind your couch.”

“Of course not,” Shiro says. “He’s with Nyma.”

 “Nyma?” Lance stops in the middle of the room, his backpack slipping off his arms and dropping to the ground with a loud _thump_. A warm blush is dusting across the tops of his cheeks as realization sets in. “He’s…. with Nyma." 

It’s all the evidence Shiro needs. Lance knows _exactly_ what Rolo’s issues are.

Shiro slams the door hard behind him, the sound reverberating through the small apartment. Lance takes an uneasy step backward, aware of Shiro’s unbridled fury, and his gaze turns cautious. “Look, I thought he was done with her, I swear, Shiro, or I wouldn’t have given him your number.” 

Shiro shuffles to the kitchen with a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know how you missed it, Lance. She was all he talked about Saturday anyway.”

“Was it really that bad?” Lance cringes at Shiro’s answering silence. He follows his friend into the kitchen, slipping onto a stool at the breakfast counter and props his head in his hands. “I mean, at least you had fun though, right? You never expected it to go anywhere in the first place.”

Opening the fridge, Shiro slides Lance a bottle of green tea and helps himself to an iced coffee. A few shots of Expresso might’ve helped at this point, but he finds himself too tired to care. Even though this weekend had been planned to help his situation, it’s just made things worse. Exhaustion lingers like cobwebs that he must continuously brush away only to have new ones form in their place.

“That doesn’t matter,” Shiro says, staring at Lance with a heavy gaze as he shakes his head. This conversation is becoming a creature of habit, one born and bred in the shadows of denial. “I mean… If something _had_ happened, I wouldn’t have been opposed it. Rolo was a pretty good guy for all things considering.” 

“So what you’re saying is that, if you had the chance, you’d bang him.” Lance pops the lid off his tea as Shiro sputters, trying to form a coherent response. “So if you go on another blind date, I need someone who’d be ready to put out on the first date—no strings attached and all that jazz.” 

“That is _not_ what I meant, and you know it.” 

Lance is laughing, shoulders shaking. “Dude, I know, I just want you to know how stupid you sound.” 

“I do not sound _stupid_ —”

“First you tell me you don’t want someone to get serious with,” Lance says as he sips his tea, eyes flashing in amusement. “Then you tell me you don’t want someone for a one night stand. Now you say you wouldn’t mind it if something happened.” He props his elbows up on the table and leans closer. “Shiro, you’re giving me mixed signals here. What _exactly_ are you looking for?”

“I…” With a soft sigh, he leans back against the fridge, running a tired hand down his face and turns his gaze towards the ceiling, tracing the popcorn pattern like it has the answers to the universe etched in it. “I just want someone with… _potential_.” 

Lance hums at that as he reaches for the tin of cookies on Shiro’s counter, and Shiro frowns. It’s the only thing left over from Hunk’s latest baking escapade, and he’d been _saving_ those for a special occasion.

“Look, everyone has potential, but you’ll never know how much or if it’s good or bad if you never take the chance to explore it. You’ve gotta initiate something.” He pops a cookie into his mouth, chewing over his words. “Maybe that’s your whole problem—with you feeling lost and alone and all that shit. Maybe it’s because you’re not open to initiating things.”

Shiro’s eyes trail over his prosthesis, unable to dignify Lance’s comment with a response as he tries to get his thoughts together, thrown out of the loop yet again. Lance hit the nail on the head. There’s truth in what he says.

“Prince Charming is not just going to drop into your lap, Shiro,” Lance continues. “You have to be open to finding him." 

“I’ve tried, Lance,” Shiro mutters to his coffee.

Lance’s mouth twitches. “I know you have.” 

 _Trying_ has never been Shiro’s problem. The past six months are proof enough that there’s such a thing as _trying too hard_. Trying kept him in a relationship with Sendak that was long past its expiration date. Trying pushes him into long hours during an internship that don’t even count towards his degree, if only to keep Slav happy. Trying leads him to make bad decisions because alcohol is sometimes the only thing that makes life tolerable. Trying put him with Rolo, still hung up on his ex-(current)-girlfriend, and the cute bartender he never took a chance with. 

“I know it didn’t work out with Rolo,” Lance says, pulling Shiro from his musings. “But Hunk might have a guy if you’re interested in—”

Shiro runs a hand over his face, speaking through his fingers, “Not this again.”

“—trying again.” Lance’s lips twist to the side in a wry smile. “And I really think you should take this chance because you aren’t going to find someone hiding in your apartment, Shiro.” 

Shiro says nothing, eyes fixed on Lance’s shoulder, wishing he can explain exactly what he needs. The truth is that there’s many dimensions to loneliness, and he is well acquainted with them all.

First, there’s the knowledge that everyone is different and that no one else on this planet is going through what you are—you are the only one who can understand yourself. It’s something he felt after the accident that took his arm, when he laid in the hospital bed surrounded by people who cared and loved him, but no one who could help him come to terms with his own grief. He was forced to relearn everything—and he did it all on his own.

There’s the cold space beside you in bed where a warm body used to be pressed up against you, and now you’re left with nothing but the faint scent of his cologne and the ghost of his touch on your skin. Sendak was there once, and now sometimes there’s strangers, but Shiro doesn’t want someone for their warmth. He wants someone to love because he’s so, so tired of thinking he’s unlovable that it becomes a fact rather than a fear.  

 Lastly, there’s the hollowness of hatred that builds and builds, until it’s a deep ache within that you feel down to your bones. It’s him learning to be himself again while still feeling like a stranger in his own skin. The fact of the matter is that Shiro wants to promise someone forever—wants to fall in love—but it’s hard because he can’t even love himself yet. 

He doesn’t tell Lance this though. He doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, he simply nods and agrees to another blind date because he’s desperate, a little bit broken, but above all wants to try to feel _something_. If dates are the way to do that, then he’ll suffer through a hundred if it’ll help him find what he’s looking for.

 

* 

 

Shiro takes a shot before his date with Rex.

If alcohol is supposed to be liquid luck, then _holy shit_ he needs all that he can get.

Still, Hunk’s the one who set him up with Rex, the brother of Hunk’s girlfriend Shay. While Lance makes questionable choices in his life, Hunk’s the one who keeps him on the straight and narrow path. Hunk is responsible and a gentleman, so Shiro has high expectations from him. The worst he expects is perhaps someone who’s too boring, too bland.

He’s pleasantly surprised. The Rex that Hunk sets him up with is a gentleman through and through—perfect in all the ways that matter. He’s kind and caring, if not a bit a naïve at times since he grew up in a small town way outside the city. Born with a tendency to be overly polite, opening doors for strangers and pulling out Shiro’s chair when they go out to restaurants, he’d make the perfect boyfriend for anyone who wants someone suitable and respectable. Shiro would be an _idiot_ if he doesn’t give Rex a chance.

The problem is… he already _did_ give Rex a chance, nearly four years ago, when Shiro dated him during their third year at the university.

He expects Rex to be boring and bland. He doesn’t expect Rex to be his _ex-boyfriend_.

Shiro walks into _Marmora_ with a hopeful heart until he sees the familiar broad shoulders from the man he met in his chemistry lab, and he skitters back a few steps. Rex hasn’t noticed him yet from his spot at the table in the far corner of the bar, perusing the menu with a critical eye. He’s still got the buzz cut and favors combat boots, but at least he’s changed out of the worn hoodie he wore like a security blanket.

Rex’s eyes widen as he finally catches sight of him. Shiro knows he’s in the few years since he’s last seen him, and a lot has changed: already going gray, a large scar marring his face, missing one arm. He doesn’t blame Rex for his surprise. Sometimes Shiro feels like a stranger in his own body too.

“ _Shiro_?!” Rex exclaims, like he can hardly believe it. The last time they’d seen each other, it had been in a bar much like this after three months together, and then Shiro had opened his stupid mouth and mentioned going _steady_ , and Rex bolted like he’d proposed. Which left Shiro alone, and Rex afraid of commitment. 

It hadn’t been the greatest moment. His life’s only gone downhill from there.

Swallowing hard, he slips into the seat across from Rex. “Hunk didn’t tell me your last name,” he tells him with an apologetic smile.

“He didn’t tell me your name at all… Else,” Rex’s voice trails off, but Shiro knows how it ends. _Else I wouldn’t be here_.

It’s clear that Rex would rather be any place but here, and Shiro can’t fault him for it. If he had his way, he’d be back at his apartment and pouring over notes for his presentation in Slav’s class, which has to be the saddest thing Shiro’s ever admitted to. But at least he’d be home and comfortable, wrapped in his grandmother’s knit blanket and drinking tea, instead of back at this stupid bar that smells like alcohol and desperation.

“I won’t make you go through this if you don’t want to,” Shiro says, rubbing his face with a tired sigh.

“Thank you.” And _dear God,_ from the bright smile that tugs at Rex’s lips, it’s like the second coming of Christ. 

Rex takes his leave quickly and quietly, glad that Shiro’s given him an exit. It’s whatever, really. Shiro just doesn’t want to be the one to tell Hunk that the date was called off. Disappointing Hunk is the greatest sin in his good opinion. Maybe if he stays and at least _tries_ to mingle like a single flamingo, things will be better received. With a sigh, Shiro faces the fact that he will not get a nice, quiet Saturday night and heads to the bar where liquid luck is brewing strong.

“Could I get…” Shiro’s voice trails off as he recognizes the bartender, all purple eyes and dark hair, the one person who’d made last weekend even bearable.

“Look who’s back,” the other man drawls out, crossing his arms against his chest and flicks the rag over his shoulder. “Never thought I’d see you again after that disaster last week.” 

“What can I say?” Shiro says with an easy smile as he slides onto a vacant bar stool. “I’m a masochist. I like the torture.” 

“I’ll have to remember that.” The bartender pops up from his slouch and gestures towards the drink menu written across the back wall. “What’s your poison tonight?” 

“Uhmm…” Shiro scans the menu and wonders what kind of guy he wants to be tonight: drunk and desperate, or tipsy and tranquil. Either way, he’s going to end up regretting whatever happens, so he figures he might as well go all in. “A Long Island Iced Tea, please.”

 The bartender nods, dark fringe spilling into his eyes, but he brushes it back and flashes him a quick wink, leaving Shiro staring breathless. He turns around to where he keeps his ingredients and starts to cook up the strongest Iced Tea Shiro’s ever had. Through it all, Shiro realizes that he is helpless: the man is completely and _utterly_ gorgeous. He’d almost forgotten it all. The man is miles of leg with black shirt that hugs a thin torso, toned arms to match—a perfect Adonis sculpted from the world’s purest marble.

Basically, he’s beautiful and Shiro’s a goner.

When he slides the glass over to him, Shiro raises it in a toast and knocks back a huge gulp. “Honestly, I fucking needed this.” Pinching the lime slice off the rim of the glass, he bites into it, the sour taste bursting in his mouth and bringing him back to life.

“Should I be concerned that alcohol seems to be the only thing that makes you feel better?” the bartender asks, quirking an eyebrow high as he sits back and watches Shiro gourge himself on fruit and regret.

“You know what they say,” Shiro tells him as he takes another sip. “Vodka may not be the answer, but it’s worth a shot.”

The man is busy adjusting the apron around his waist as he fingers the tie and pauses to fix Shiro with a stare. It’s sharp and piercing, like a dagger, and strikes him straight through the heart. “Was that supposed to be a pun?" 

“Thought you’d like it,” Shiro chimes in with a full-tooth grin, too innocent to be real. “After your Lion King reference last time, you seem like the type who’d appreciate a good pun.”

The bartender’s voice is a low drawl, and it sends a shiver straight down Shiro’s spine. “Is that so?" 

“Maybe,” squeaks Shiro, flushing hard. _Oh, please let him think it’s the alcohol. Please._

There’s silence for a few minutes as Shiro continues to drink while the other man tends to other customers, brewing different concoctions that some people would _definitely_ feel in the morning. He notices that there’s a certain pattern of people that order from the bar tonight: those who drink to regret, with boisterous laughter and slurred smiles; those who drink to forget, with the bags like bruises under their eyes; those who drink to have sex, with laced fingers and flushed cheeks; and those who are just plain desperate, hunched over the counter as if kneeling for prayer. Shiro wonders what category he’s in. 

(It depends what happens tonight. He figures he’ll know come the Sunday sunrise.)

“So tell me something,” the bartender suddenly says, interrupt Shiro’s silent reverie.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve been wondering about this since last weekend, and I had reconciled with the fact that I’d never get the answer, but then you waltzed right back in here, and it’s like it’s a sign from God.” He abandons the bottle of English gin he’d been holding to turn to Shiro, a curious spark going supernova in his eyes. “So I really, _really_ need to ask you this.”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, interest piqued. _Please ask for my number_.

He’s desperate this point.

( _Ah_ , so that’s the type of drinker he is.)

“What are you doing?” The bartender’s gaze is turgid. 

“…I ask myself that question on a daily basis." 

“That’s not what I meant." 

Shiro takes a sip of his drink and raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to explain it a bit more because I’m not sober enough to figure it out.” 

The bartender stares at the glass in Shiro’s hand. “You’ve literally only drank a quarter of that.”

“Tequila’s magic. Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”

The man holds Shiro’s eyes for a few moments before crumbling in on himself, dissolving in soft chuckles. “Okay, okay, but _seriously_. What are you doing here?” He gestures around the whole bar with a flick of his wrist. “Last week, I see you here for nearly three hours, and the whole time you’re literally anchored to your table to stop yourself from running away, even though _everyone_ knew you wanted to. This time, you and your date don’t even make it to the door. We didn’t even get to place our bets tonight.” 

The alcohol burns his tongue. “What’s your point?” Shiro asks.

“I’m just sensing the beginning of a pattern here,” the bartender says, crossing his arms against his chest. “Bad dates every Saturday, and then you drink the rest of the night away.” 

“I had _one_ drink last week,” Shiro protests.

The man quirks an eyebrow. “You telling you seriously didn’t go home and drown yourself in some piss-water beer to forget about what happened?”

 _It wasn’t piss-water beer_ , Shiro wants to argue. _It was cheap-ass wine._  

(But it did the trick.)

(…Not that Shiro will ever admit to it.)

“Still,” the bartender continues, ignoring Shiro’s lack of response. “Should I expect to see you at my bar every Saturday?” 

“If the dates don’t work out, then yeah, probably.” He rubs his eyes with a soft sigh, gravity suddenly weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“So that means there’s more.” The bartender sounds amused. “You experimenting with Tindr or something? Looking for Prince Charming?”

“Something like that,” Shiro reluctantly admits.

There’s a beat of silence. “You horny?”

Unfortunately, because Shiro has been cursed by Fate and Destiny and whatever other little cosmic _shits_ are in charge of his life, he happens to be drinking his Iced Tea when the question is asked. Choking, Shiro spits his sip all over the bar—on the counter, himself, and the bartender.

Oh, god—the _bartender_.

“I-I am _so sorry_.” The apology is breathless as Shiro’s torn between mortification and dying.

The bartender just laughs, clearly amused by this course of events. “Don’t worry about it.” He waves Shiro off, grabbing the discard dish towel and dragging it in quick circles across the counter top. “It’s my fault. I should’ve phrased that question better.” 

“How _else_ would you have phrased it?”

“Most people come to this place for one of three reasons,” the bartender says as he finishes cleaning up Shiro’s mess. Propping his elbows on the counter, chin in hands, he leans close and his voice turns low. “One: to have a good time—which you clearly aren’t here for, considering your last date ended in me making money off your misery. Two: to hook-up—which isn’t you as well because last time you gave up and left, and this time you let your date walk away as soon as you got here. You haven’t tried to find someone else in the thirty minutes since.” 

“I’ve been talking to _you_. I haven’t had the chance—” But Shiro’s protest falls on deaf ears. 

“Then there’s three,” the bartender proposes, an easy smile slipping onto his face. “Because they like to drink—and, like you said before, you only had one drink last time, and you’ve been nursing that Iced Tea since you got here.” Gaze flickering over Shiro’s form, crinkled with unbridled mirth, sparkling with curiosity. “Which leaves Option Four.” 

“Option Four?” Shiro asks. “I thought you said there were only three.”

“There are,” the bartender tells him. “I’ve never had a fourth reason though. You’re the first person I can’t seem to figure out.”

Shiro sighs and fixes his gaze on his metal fingers, tapping the edge of his glass in a rhythmic pattern. _Clink. Clink. Clink._ It’s the only thing he can do to center his thoughts, only thing he can do to ground himself. “You aren’t the only one,” he chimes in lamely because there truly is no better answer.

“So that’s why I’m asking. Why are you here? What are you doing?” Shiro glances up, taken back by the serious expression on the bartender’s face. “You ended up miserable both times you came here, and now you say you’re coming back. Is this gonna be how it always is?” 

“No,” Shiro says, leaning back in his seat. “Truth is, I’m stressed, and my friends decided the best way for me to relax is to go on dates. The only problem is that they don’t seem to trust my judgement, so all the dates are _blind dates_.”

The bartender drums his fingers on the edge of the bar top. “What was wrong with the first guy?”

“Hung up on his ex.” 

“The second?” 

“Is my ex." 

“Ouch.”

Shiro shakes his head, shrugging helplessly. “That’s putting it lightly." 

“Keith, stop flirting with Mr. Money Bags and take care of your other customers!” a voice calls from the other side of the bar, startling Shiro and the bartender from their conversation. It’s the waiter from last weekend, all sharp eyes and smug smiles.

The bartender— _Keith_ —sputters. “R-Regris!” 

“Mr. Money Bags?” Shiro parrots. 

“You won me a bet, remember? There was a lot of money,” the man— _Keith_ , his name is _Keith!_ —says lowly, tightening the tie on his apron, and casts Shiro a frantic look. “I have to get back to work, but uhm, I’ll…”

“Go,” Shiro tells him with a smile. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Keith’s eyes soften, clearly pleased with Shiro’s response, and dashes off to serve someone else. Shiro watches him with lips screwed into a lovesick grin and heart banging in his chest. He doesn’t mean to stare, but there’s definitely something about Keith that strikes his heart like Cupid’s arrow—sharp enough to leave a mark. While the bartender is hot as fuck, there’s something else that makes Shiro want to talk to him.  It’s a certain kind of curiosity that makes his tongue grow heavy, so many questions wanting to fall from his mouth and into the open space between them. Even in the short time they’ve spent over a Mai Tai and an Iced Tea, a connection is forging between them—one that Shiro wants to explore more. 

It’s easy and fluid—like a waterfall—and Shiro’s thirsty.

Despite his night being officially over with Rex’s leave, Shiro stays at the bar for a little while longer and watches the bartender— _Keith_ , he reminds himself with a swoop in his stomach—dash from one side of the counter to the other, greeting customers with bright smiles and handing them drinks. By the time there’s a lull in activity, Keith has worked up a sweat, a light shiny sheen across his forehead that seems to glow in the neon light of the _Marmora_ sign.

“You done with that drink yet?” Keith asks and leans over the bar top, trying to get closer to Shiro.

Shiro’s mind stutters to a halt, trying to form a coherent response. He’d spend too long staring at the bartender’s shoulders, how they went lax the more time ticked on, as Keith settles in for the night and falls into the sway of dashing and drinking. “W-What’d you say?” he asks, the tips of his ears burning.

Keith only laughs. “I said, are you done with your drink yet, or did you want something else?”

“Oh.”

Shiro stares down at his glass still a quarter full of dark alcohol. It glimmers under the soft lighting, like the moon on the surface of the water in the harbor, right before he jumps in. For a moment, he wonders what it’d be like if he jumped now—took the chance, asked Keith for his number. It’s only their second meeting, but Keith is saccharine, and Shiro is smitten.

He doesn’t ask for his number, instead, just another Mai Tai because Shiro is nothing more than a creature of habit, and sometimes it’s safer to ride out the hurricane than to search for the eye. Hiding from the chaos is always better than finding the calm in calamity.

As Keith prepares the drink, Shiro slides some money into the tip jar perched on the corner of the counter. “Since you missed the chance to bet tonight,” he tells him with a wink, and the bartender just laughs. 

“You really don’t need to do that,” Keith says. “Use it to treat yourself.”

“I already am,” Shiro grumbles, taking a sip from the Mai Tai slid his way. “I don’t need much to enjoy myself.”

“Then why agree to these dates?” Curiosity is sparking in Keith’s eyes, eager for answers about the man he can’t seem to figure out, and Shiro is nothing more than ready to fan a flame. “They only seem to be making you miserable, and excuse me if I’m being presumptuous, but you don’t seem all that excited at the prospect of more. Do you even wanna date?”

Shiro frowns around the rim of his glass, chewing over his words. “It’s not that I don’t want to date, but it’s more along the lines that I don’t…” His voice trails off because he doesn’t want to finish the sentence: _I don’t want to be alone anymore_. It’s too lonely with his own thoughts now a days. He can only shrug helplessly. “Honestly, I don’t know what I want anymore. Sometimes I think I do, and sometimes I’m completely clueless…” 

He meets Keith’s wide, quizzical eyes. “God, I sound so stupid right now.”

Keith seems to mull over his words, thinking hard, before he puts on a wry smile and shakes his head. “No, you don’t sound stupid, but… Maybe that’s something you should do before you go on anymore dates: find out what you want.” 

Shiro stares at him in confusion, a crinkle between his furrowed brows. “You really think it’s that easy?”

Keith shrugs. “Your friends care enough to set you up on these dates, but you still make the final decision, right? Maybe you should save yourself the time and tell them what you want, or at least what you’re looking for in a guy.” A slow smile stretches across his face. “That way poor waiters and bartenders won’t take advantage of it and make money off you.” 

“Just _how much_ did you make last week?”

“Let’s just say I can finally afford the bike I’ve been saving up for,” Keith says blankly. “And that’s all thanks to you, uhm. ...” He pauses for a moment, as if he’s suddenly become aware that he doesn’t actually _know_ the stranger at his bar. “What’s your name again?”

“Shiro,” he answers quickly, holding his hand out to the other man. “You can call me Shiro.”

Keith grips his hand and gives it a firm shake, and Shiro nearly melts at his touch—all warm, soft skin, and the rough calluses of a man who’s seen his fair share of hardships. “I’m Keith.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, _Shiro_ ,” the bartender says, and the way his name rolls off Keith’s tongue gives Shiro heart palpations. The sound is like a lullaby with Keith’s low and smoky voice, reminding him of a brewing thunderstorm on the horizon. It sends shivers rocketing up and down his spine.

“You as well,” he chimes in, breathless.

(God, it’s so _pathetic._ )

“Keith!” It’s the waiter again—Regris. “Seriously, this isn’t your break yet, dude. I asked for the martini like five minutes ago!”

Keith waves his co-worker off with a flick of his wrist, lips pressed into a resolute expression as he pushes himself away from the bar. “I guess that’s my cue.” He chuckles lowly in the back of his throat, more to himself than Shiro. This sound sends a _zap!_ through Shiro’s body, electric connection in his veins with no outlet.

It’s music to his ears.

(God, he’s so _pathetic.)_

“See you around,” Shiro says, raising his Mai Tai in a sloppy toast. No one can blame him on his poor etiquette—it’s a bar and reeks of desperation.

“And, Shiro,” Keith calls over his shoulder before he heads off to the customers at the other end of the bar. He casts him a sideways smile, eyes glittering with amusement. “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much. Anyone would be lucky to go on a date with a guy as pretty as you.” 

He winks and goes to work. 

Shiro melts in his seat. 

(God, _god_ , he’s a fucking _goner_.)

Shiro wants to say something as equally as eloquent as Keith’s final words, but suddenly his voice is gone and his mind is empty. Watching Keith as he pours English gin into a glass, a smile on his face as he waits on other customers, Shiro debates whether he should suck up his courage and ask Keith for his number. Take a chance and be open to opportunities—everything Lance had told him earlier this week.

 _But he can’t_. No matter what Shiro wants to do, he can’t seem to move. Too scared, too worried about the possible ramifications. Whatever the case, he isn’t ready to face it all. Not now. Maybe not ever. With a sigh, he slides off the bar stool and slides his jacket back on. Even all the vodka in his blood cannot make him brave and brazen, thus leaving his breathless and agog.

 _Go on, try it. Break a leg_ , Allura would tell him if she were here.

But Shiro knows the truth: single flamingos who are ready to mingle only have one leg to stand on. Break that, and then everything else comes crumbling down.

(But the bartender said _he was pretty!!_ …So, points for that, he guesses.)


End file.
